


Whispers of Secrets and Sighs

by Eristastic



Category: Uncommon Time (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Canon, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 12:37:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7171523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eristastic/pseuds/Eristastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>You’re caught off guard when she lifts your chin with her other hand, pulling your attention back to her. “You know what mazes are good for, don’t you?”<br/>“Leisurely diversions?”<br/>She grins. “Of a sort.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>There are frustrations to work out and a wonderful deserted maze to make use of: it's like the opportunity landed demurely into Altair and Arietta's hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whispers of Secrets and Sighs

**Author's Note:**

> This is essentially all spoilers for Arietta's dungeon, even if nothing much actually happens. I just wanted to write them be fluffy together and kiss a lot. It escalates a bit from there, but that's an occupational hazard, I suppose.  
> I mean really, what else are mazes _for?_

Official functions tend to be something of a drag, but you’re impressed by how boring this one is turning out to be.

It’s only been going on for two hours – enough time for a dinner seated next to all the wrong people and now the drinks before dancing – and you’ve already slipped into the pleasant daydream-state of thinking about your children. Which ones you need to spend more time with, who needs more time alone, who needs to be gently pushed in which direction by whom to make them as comfortable as they can possibly be…You can feel a smile work its way to your lips.

“I wasn’t aware you had such a fondness for discussions of fiscal reports.”

“I- pardon?” You smile benignly at the woman raising an eyebrow at you. You’ve forgotten her name completely – you couldn’t have said if you’ve even been introduced – so you feel the tiniest bit lost at sea. “I do apologise: I was thinking of something else.”

“Your children, presumably?” A knowing smile. “That’s quite alright, Lord Bonheur. We,” –her eyes flit to her wife and back again– “do understand how difficult it can be to let one’s mind rest, even for a night.”

You wonder if their show at solidarity holds any genuine feeling. You’d like to think so, you truly would, but it has grown difficult since Arietta started to show you exactly how easily people can hide contempt when they need to. It wasn’t something you’d had to be alert to, before. It sometimes still concerns you how matter-of-fact she is about it.

But there’s no need to show any of that, so you smile and turn some part of your brain back to the conversation without really wanting to. Delighted as you are to talk about your children, you’re not quite so thrilled with the reined-in, packaged answers you have to use in this sort of company, where no one _really_ wants to know about how anyone’s actually doing. Pleasant, inoffensive things.

Predictably enough, your mind begins to wander again before too long – your eyes roam the ballroom. Arietta’s gone missing, you notice. Rather, you noticed half an hour ago, but you’d hoped she’d simply gone out of sight. But she’s nowhere to be seen, and it’s something of a record for her to leave before the dancing even starts.

So something’s wrong.

Once the idea’s planted itself in your head, there’s very little you can do to stop it sprouting and blooming into the nervous energy you so hate, and yet are so prone to. You linger as long as you can, and then you make your apologies to the women you were speaking with, turning from them with enough force to send your cloak up in an arc. Politely excusing yourself from the people who reach out to you like roots on a forest floor to trip you up, you leave the drawing-room-turned-ballroom suite and all its gleaming lights, its chattering people and varnished wood shining like oil. You’re not quite sure yourself why you’re in such a hurry, but you reason that you’ve been holding up perfectly well for hours and it’s time for a break. Running after Arietta sounds like enough of one to placate you.

Outside the main house, gardens stretch out in front of you in dizzying variety. From the glass doors and the semi-circle of paving stones laid out in pleasing designs they lead to, there are no fewer than four staircases in stone that looks suspiciously like marble, all leading to different levels. You think about it. There’s no real reason Arietta should even be out here, but your gut says she is and so she is: by that logic, it follows that you should go where you feel she would be.

The flower gardens seem a sight to drink in on a summer’s day, but on this – an autumn night – there are few guests milling there and you can’t say you think she would be either. The statue fields and their alcoves of lovers’ nests under ceilings of trellised wisteria don’t seem her style either, not now, this late, when you can already hear gentle laughter and sighs as guests make full and enthusiastic use of the privacy. The lakes are a fair distance away and muddy at this time of year, so you turn for the maze.

 Above you, the star-speckled sky seems lit up by the lights from the house. The moon is just past full and you can almost believe you could stargaze here, if you didn’t know how much more brilliant the night sky can be. Another time perhaps, if you’re invited back, you and Arietta might go out to the lakes and watch the stars there. Knowing her, it wouldn’t stay stargazing for long, but you have no real objection to that.

You have very few objections to what Arietta does with you in general: it’s marvellous.

The maze is deserted, from what you can see, even though guests were clearly expected as there are lamps lit at regular points, just taller than the thick-packed hedges. Without paying much mind to the carved entrance sign reminding people coyly that mazes are easy to lose oneself in, you walk past the glittering brass gates and into the opening corridor.

It’s tempting to say that mazes aren’t your forte, but quite honestly you don’t know. You’ve never been in one before: you’ve played maze games with the children when they were younger, but you’ve never once been in a proper recreational maze, and you’re lost far quicker than you imagined. A sense of calm settles itself placidly on you when you realise you have no idea how to get out again.

If Arietta isn’t here – and if she has to come in and find you – you know you won’t live it down for weeks. So you walk forwards.

The grass under your shoes is just faintly wet with the afternoon’s rain, but the sky is clear and the torches light your way tolerably well. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re wondering what in blazes you think you’re doing, but the rest of you is filled with something rather like the thrill of adventure. Arietta does this to you, and you let her, and you love it. So you keep walking just on the fast side of natural, trying to keep to one side of the hedges in the faint hope that that might lead you to the centre.

Four dead ends and countless minutes later, you hear voices. It’s like an afterimage of sound, muffled so you can only hear the tone, but tone is enough to know Arietta. You’d know her anywhere, under any conditions; you’d know her if you lost all other senses and could only feel her touch. Her imprint goes deeper than any of that.

You don’t want to walk in on her having a private conversation so you wait, wondering how best to make it through to wherever she is, short of climbing over the hedge itself. That seems an efficient path to getting yourself laughed at, so you reject it quite quickly. Comfortable you may be with her, but you do want her to think you have some level of dignity. She monopolises any situation she cares to step into, and while you love that about her – while you love being Her ❤ Honey – you sometimes wish she’d slow down, just enough for you to be with her without having your breath snatched away and your heart held between her hands as if it were something precious.

The night air around you is slightly chilly, now that you’re not moving. You imagine that, given another few weeks, your breath would come out as milky puffs. Time passes so quickly; winter comes upon you so quickly.

That isn’t something you want to think about, not tonight. Not now.

The conversation sounds as if it’s coming to a close. Parting greetings sound as if they’re being exchanged, and you start to walk in the direction that you think will take you to Arietta when she comes back out with her companion.

In the end, it takes you two more dead ends before you reach the centre and her. She’s alone, sitting on the inner bench of a gazebo that seems more carving than actual structure. The roof alone is in two parts, the peak crowned by a silver heart, and the entirety is covered in creeping roses that seem to have been patiently manipulated from the beds around it. It’s almost frighteningly tacky, but then Arietta looks up at you and you can’t care about any of that. Raising your hand in greeting, you walk towards her and return her smile.

She’s leaning forwards, her bare shoulders slightly hunched and her hair falling over them in chestnut strands, two plaits pulled from the sides to come together at the back of her head. She’s beautiful, because she never isn’t, but there’s something not totally right about her expression. You sit next to her, taking your hat off because it’s always felt like too much when it’s just the two of you, and you tilt your head to invite an explanation. 

For some time, she stays reticent. It puzzles you when she’s usually so forthcoming, so you put an arm around her shoulders and wait. Only after a few minutes does the idea that she might be waiting for you come to mind.

“Who were you talking to?” you ask gently, because gentle is the best way you know.

Arietta looks at her shoes a few moments longer (they’re undone, the heels scraping on the stone floor of the gazebo almost independently of her heels’ movements). Then she smiles and straightens up. It isn’t quite enough to shrug off your hand and you know her well enough to tell that this is intentional.

“Luminoso. They came to find me.” She’s staring off into the distance, watching something you can’t see. It doesn’t bother you: you only want to watch her right now.

“Was the party too much?”

“Oh, you’re sweet but you don’t need to coddle me quite so much, you know?” She laughs lightly, and it may not sound like bells or a bubbling stream but it sets your heart at ease just the same. “I’m used to this! If I get bored, I leave. It’s really as simple as that.”

“Which means they were speaking about you again.”

“Well, yes. Of course they were.” She puts a finger to her lips thoughtfully. “Perhaps I ought to be flattered: I’m clearly still news, this long after my introduction into society.”

“What were they saying?” You’re not a violent person and you don’t anger easily, so you only feel tired. Drained, as if the weight of everything you have no power to change has come to settle itself comfortably on your shoulders.

“It’ll only upset you if I tell you, you know that!” she smiles, her face almost close enough to kiss. Her eyes are hypnotising like this, but much as you’d love to let yourself be swept away by her rapids, there are more important things right now.

“You shouldn’t have to listen to them…” Your voice sounds weak, even to you. “They have no right to say any of it, and it’s _horrible_ that you’re forced into this every time-!”

“You’re overreacting a little, don’t you think?”

“No.”

“Well, I do, at least. Do you really think a few snide words at a single party are going to do anything to me?” She shakes her head, still smiling. “No, it’s _everything_ , Altair. It’s all of it.”

 Taking a breath you can only hear because there’s nothing else to hear, this far from the house, she closes her eyes. When she opens them, she’s staring far from you again. “I was talking about it with Luminoso. They don’t quite understand either, of course. But it isn’t a single harsh comment, and most of the time it isn’t even the constant knowledge of what I am. That seems so distant, a lot of the time. Until I remember it, I mean.” She gives a wry smile that twists your insides. “It’s in all of the small things, you know. It’s in the constant stream of whispers, the reluctance to invite me anywhere, the rumours: it’s everything. It’s all the time. It never stops. It’s an orchestra with my own ancestry as the magnificent soloist.” A wryer smile, slipping into bitterness.

“And though they’re a good listener, though I feel comfortable talking to them, Luminoso doesn’t get it. Real spirits wouldn’t get it, would they? They’re not abominations, or insults to nature. Someone called me that once, you know,” she says, as if imparting general trivia about the weather.

“Well, anyway.” She stretches her legs out, heeled shoes hanging from her ankles by straps. “That’s just how it is. The world is full of assholes, and the hatred never stops when you’re different. Really, I don’t know how they expect me to put up with it. I only have so much patience, and I’d do far better to use it up on other things. Oh, but you don’t need to worry about it, so don’t give me that face. I don’t expect you to understand either: it’s okay, it really is. I love you, but there are things I can’t share with you, or with anyone, I suppose. Isn’t it the same for you?”

“Not quite.” Your mouth feels a little dry, but you’ve been keeping your teeth clenched together all this time.

Arietta considers your answer, smiling at you as if she could cut open your chest to see inside whenever she chooses. “No, not quite,” she agrees. “Well, that aside, how have you been doing, My ❤ Honey? How’s the party been? It’s awful, isn’t it?”

“It’s not great. Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

“About the party?” Facetiousness is written into every part of her smile, but it still looks genuine so you’re not certain you mind.

“No.”

“Then yes, I’m very sure. I did say you couldn’t understand, didn’t I? And if I talk about it anymore, I’m going to end up dwelling on it more than I really should right now. There’ll be time for that later. There’ll _always_ be time for that. Right now I’m with _you_.”

It seems like a contrived escape, but you’re not one to judge that. She knows what she’s doing. So you lean back, relaxing as best you can. The wind ruffles your hair a little and you lift a hand to brush some back behind an ear. Arietta gets there before you. Her hip and thigh are flush against yours; you can feel the fabric of her skirt through your trousers. You know it’s intentional.

“So how _have_ you been?” she asks again. “I haven’t seen you all evening, I’ve been lonely!”

“I’m worrying,” you say, raising your chin just enough to stretch your throat.

“Somehow I’m not surprised. Is it about the children? They’ll be fine! You know Chantal has everything under control, and they’re all old enough to be alone for a night now: we’ve been over this! As I recall, we went over this for an hour just yesterday.”

“Unfortunately, worrying about them is more interesting than half the people I’ve been speaking to.” You smile apologetically.

“Oh, that’s a fair point, then. Nobody’s ever at their best at this sort of party, you know: there’s too much pressure to _seem_ your best.” She raises her hands in a gesture of helplessness at society’s whims. “Still, it does mean we have the rest of the night to ourselves. Since the children will be fine,” she adds pointedly, raising an eyebrow at you.

“And you’re really alright?”

“I’m _fine_! Better since you got here.” She shuffles up closer to you, which isn’t exactly possible and only means that when she turns, her breasts are pushing into your arm. Again, you know it’s intentional. Everything she does is intentional, and it’s almost more than you can take. Perhaps it’s time to let yourself be swept away. It has been a terrible party, after all.

She’s lifting a single foot and letting the shoe dangle from her ankle. Before you know fully what you’re doing, you’re kneeling in front of her, gently re-clasping it.

“I can do up my own shoes,” she says, sounding amused.

“Can you really?”

“Rude.” She pats you lightly on the side of the face in the imitation of a slap, but her hand lingers on your cheek, stroking circles with her thumb as she leans forwards to pierce you with her gaze. It isn’t anything even approaching fair that her eyes can glitter like that even at night, even with the moonlight brushing over the top of her head rather than on her face. You keep your hands on her ankle, staring at her because at the moment that’s all you can do, frozen by her touch made icy from the night air.

“You know,” she says mildly, two fingers tracing across to your lips, “it occurs to me that we’re in a maze.”

“Oh?” You hadn’t intended on saying much more than that, but you don’t get the chance either way: brushing her fingers over your lips a last time, she slips them inside your mouth. Your skin feels burned where she touched you, your heart is leaping from your chest, and you kiss her fingers, lifting a trembling hand to hold her wrist while you suck them.

She’s watching you, delight written into her face, and then you lower your eyes in some display of mock-humility. If you were actually humble, you wouldn’t be putting on a show for her. You wouldn’t be drawing your mouth off her fingers, licking down them and bringing her knuckles to your lips to kiss them too. Humility has never been part of it.

You’re caught off guard when she lifts your chin with her other hand, pulling your attention back to her. “You know what mazes are good for, don’t you?”

“Leisurely diversions?”

She grins. “Of a sort.”

She kisses you then, and you lean up to meet her, your thighs screaming at the awkward position. Her tongue is barely in your mouth for five abnormally fast heartbeats before she breaks away, kissing along your jaw, and you can feel the smile on her face. It makes something blossom in your chest, as if every part of you is ready to please her and make her smile again. Which is ridiculous, of course it is, but she does have a habit of making you react like that. Endless adoration is something so much sweeter when shared.

You slip away from her feather-light touch under your chin, lowering your mouth to kiss her knees, pushing her skirts up her legs. Her fingers slide into your hair, pulling it out of your way, and you can hear her make a sound of pleasure. It’s all the encouragement you need. Taking a second to pull your gloves off with your teeth, you toss them onto the bench and slide the layers of satin and gauze up her thighs, kissing along the inseams of her stockings as you do. When you get to her black lace garters, she spreads her legs so you can crouch between them, kissing to the tops of her thighs, groaning softly into her skin. Her fingers angle your head back and you look up at her, your mouth brushing the folds of the skirts that are pushed up against her hips.

There seems to be no real reason for the pause, at first. She just smiles, sending a tingle of warmth through you, and then she rubs her foot against your crotch. It has you gasping raggedly, breathing in heavy bursts against her. Her smile’s widened, you see, when you regain the semblance of control and grin back up at her.

As if given permission, you straddle her calf and she presses it against you, letting you have the friction you need – a terrible idea, really, given how expensive the suit you’re wearing is – while you pull her panties down to her knees, grateful for her hands keeping your hair back as you use first your fingers and then your mouth on her.

Your breath is already broken with the rhythm she’s working you at, but she’s just the same: her gasps come out like moans, her head tilted rather than flung back. Neither of you lasts too long, not at the tail end of an unusually long period of abstinence (three days). You have the foresight, at least, to undo your trousers enough that they don’t get stained when you come, and after you cry out and the world comes back from the splintered pieces it broke into, you sit back on your heels, exhausted and unbearably happy.

Arietta looks the same, once she’s tossed her hair out of her face and pushed her dress back down (without, you notice, pulling her panties back up). She pats the seat beside her and you stand up on weak legs, slumping down by her side and doing up your belt again.

She’s smiling smugly, but it’s not the kind of smug that you’re used to from others: this is a smug that includes you, that welcomes you into the joke. You smile back, leaning on her shoulder so she can rest her head on yours.

“We should do this again,” she says pensively.

“What, come to a party just to escape into the maze to do immoral things?”

“Yes.” Her hand finds yours and squeezes it.

You nod. “You’re right, we should.”

 


End file.
